The Man in the White Suit

In my experience, if you are a man who is hankering to get noticed; if you find insufficient eyes flashing, not enough heads turning and pitifully few motors screeching to a halt when your form drifts by, the absolute peach of a fixer for this is a white suit. White suits, though they are woefully impractical, act as a beacon. It is not that white is a particularly unusual colour; it is simply that the reflection of light is so powerful that it draws a pedestrian’s attention. I find myself gazing at quite unspectacular people in quite ordinary outfits merely because they are wearing a large quantity of white.

The power of white, quite apart from the momentary dazzling effect it has, is considerable. When I imagine white suits, especially in the context of a large and untidy metropolis, I imagine wealthy dandies, tiptoeing among the dank and dark rottenness of filthy Victorian London; their pearl-like brilliance causing delight and alarm to the sooted faces of an outstretched hand. White has majesty and purity and anyone who wears it had better make jolly well sure the garments are utterly spotless.

The literary and journalistic people have almost hijacked the white suit as a thing belonging entirely to their world; a world of typewriters, infinite creativity and deadlines. Mark Twain was as famous for wearing his white suits in later life as he was for his anti-imperialism, support of the common man and his creation of Tom Sawyer and Tom Wolfe, though his fervent ‘anti-bloggism’ almost precludes me from mentioning him at all, is one of the most famous and flamboyant of modern day white-suit dandies.

It does indeed have poetic qualities: the idea of ‘the ivory tower’ springs to mind; a man so detached and disconnected from the ordinaries of life – a man seemingly mindless and uncaring of the existence, and effect, of dirt. It’s unsurprising that Fitzgerald clothed his doomed hero Gatsby in the innocence and naivety of a white suit; nothing else, sartorially speaking, could have relayed more tragedy in the bootlegger’s misplaced confidence.

The beauty of white is that it is considered such a celestial colour; virginal and angelic, white is an ideal – the taintless dream of a perfect world. The amusing, and rather obscure, Ealing comedy The Man in the White Suit pays homage to the purity and unassailability of white. Though in that story, its colour was an accident of the super-material’s inability to absorb dye, it was nevertheless an affirmation that white was the apogee, the supreme colour and without fault.

If you are interested in wearing a white suit, you are quite brilliant, if a little mad. White is devilishly difficult to keep completely clean and unless repeat visits to the dry cleaners are unlikely to damage your patience or your bank account, by all means charge ahead. The way to wear one is really very simple; remember to keep the lines classic, the trousers slim and the matching footwear anything but black. Stay away from the Saturday Night Fever, four-shirt-buttons-undone emsembles; it’s as tacky as a terry cloth tracksuit, so think more along the lines of Ernest Hemingway or James Wormold from Our Man in Havana.

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Wining and Dining with Style

There’s nothing quite like dining out. Though the unenviable tasks of meal preparation, wine pouring and washing up have been passed on to capable, professional hands, venturing out for a bite to eat poses a problem not necessarily associated with the comfort of home feasting: what to wear.

When I have been fortunate enough to dine at restaurants of exquisite taste and marvellous cuisine I am often shocked to see a couple of roguish customers, crouching over their glasses of Margaux in skin-tight t-shirts from the likes of DSquared or Dolce & Gabbana. These martyrs of the dining world, who are very likely to believe that the more they spend on a t-shirt, the more acceptable it is, are in fact the laughing stock of the entire restaurant. And, what’s worse, they are so conceited in the appeal of their self-indulgent materialism that they actually deign to attend conspicuously formal restaurants in this most crude and inappropriate clothing.

One does not have to swan around in Savile Row suits to be acceptable for such places and nor do you have to spend, contrary to common ‘wisdom’, vast amounts of greenbacks on designer goods and accessories. Dressing appropriately and elegantly can be relatively inexpensive and sets you apart as a citizen capable of respect: respect for the surroundings and for the other diners.

In order to dress appropriately, and not merely exceptionally, it is important to consider certain factors. Firstly, where will you be dining and secondly, what is the occasion. Some chaps might take very little time to consider these options; a brief enquiry as to the destination, a ‘wear-something-nice’ return comment and hey presto – this particular chap is ready.

I believe that, for other men, it is rather more complex. A Michelin starred Roux establishment calls for a different sartorial approach than a funky and crowded sushi destination. This is not an argument for ‘blending in’: I would never encourage a gentleman to disappear into the fabric of the place. A man of style should be discreetly noticeable, but he should also be capable of chameleonic modification.
Having a personal style is important, but adapting to surroundings should also be of interest.

How much to add, or indeed take away from your personal style is a question of taste and occasion. Those with a very relaxed and minimalist style may wish to ‘add’ significantly on special occasions. Likewise, those with a rather foppish dress sense may find they will benefit from ‘tailoring down’ on their way to a simple trattoria. I do not encourage such harmony from any desire for picture-postcard symmetry but for the personal comfort and enjoyment of the gentleman in particular; adjusting your threads in reverence to the surroundings can help you to relax and feel comfortable.

In the richly wooded and velvet-trimmed surroundings of a very traditional restaurant, it would be appropriate to dress complementarily; a nut brown suit, light blue shirt, chestnut Oxfords and perhaps a silk or cashmere navy blue heraldic tie would be perfect but if this sort of attire does not appeal, ‘going neutral’ is acceptable; a dark blue or grey suit with a crisp white shirt and chocolate brown shoes. The advantage of the ‘neutral’ look is that it can, in the parlance of modish fashion writers, ‘take you anywhere’; from pre-dinner drinks at a contemporary bar to post-dinner clubbing in low-lit Soho dens, the ‘neutral’ has an advantage when it comes to flexibility.

When it comes to a casual meal with friends; no build up, late notice, inexpensive, contemporary and informal, your ‘neutral’ uniform will still be effective but in some circumstances it might look a little contrived; making-an-effort-to-not-make-an-effort can be rather obvious at times, so removing the trousers and replacing them with smart denim, or conversely, removing the jacket and replacing it with a cardigan or a good v-neck jumper is a good idea for establishments that have a noisier and more youthful edge.

A female friend once told me that dressing empirically well is impressive but that dressing appropriately is even more so. Living this advice can be challenging but it’s an awful lot of fun. Need something for a smart seafood restaurant in Maine? Perhaps a double-breasted navy blazer with contrasting white buttons, light blue slim chinos and a high collar white shirt. Or something for a stylish, contemporary tapas joint in Barcelona? Maybe some white denim, some white loafers, a cream shirt and a sky blue two-button linen jacket. There is certainly pleasure in choice and there is an even greater pleasure in looking the part.

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The Future of Tailoring?

“The only man I know who behaves sensibly is my tailor;” quipped George Bernard Shaw “he takes my measurements anew each time he sees me. The rest go by with their old measurements and expect me to fit them.”

Tailoring, as Bernard Shaw’s witticism attests, is one of the most personal and rewarding experiences and the relationship a man has with his stab-rag can be a fruitful one; for no one appreciates your individuality more than a tailor. Tailors exist to perfect the practice of enveloping ourselves in garments. The fact that we desire this perfection is essential to the tailor; our vanity is the mother of the practice. And arguably, tailors need clients, especially in these luxurious days of mass machine-production, a lot more than clients need tailors.

Tailoring, though very much a profitable craft, has taken a few substantial hits in recent years. The designer suit is one of the culprits for the bruising. Offered at lower prices than tailored garments; marketed and packaged to the hilt, designer suits have been a success for brands such as Armani, Dior and Gucci. Brandishing the Italian and French credentials is sometimes more important to buyers than material and construction, and while getting a suit personally tailored from scratch remains a status symbol, more and more people are being drawn away from the dimly lit and rather homely establishments lining Savile Row.

Harrods and Selfridges; brash, lavish emporiums that excel in attracting new customers, offer free adjustments for suits bought from ‘superbrands’ such as Dior Homme and Burberry Prorsum and to the buying public, they are getting what is, to them, the ultimate package; a designer name and ‘tailoring’, all in one.

Suit buyers are far more demanding than they have ever been and they are, by all accounts, far more fickle than they used to be. The Row just hasn’t kept up with the rest of the pack. It has old and faithful clients (with a distinct emphasis on ‘old’) and internationally it is respected, but it is without a doubt experiencing a jolly rough time.

The 21st century is the age of the hotel-tailor; a quick lunchtime visit to a just-landed Hong Kong tailor in a London hotel room, and a suit made at a fraction of the price. Modern tailoring is also about using available technology; sending measurements via email and getting a suit delivered by UPS.

Clearly, the tailoring industry today is a very different thing to what it was before and it will probably be a greatly different thing in the future.

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Bertie Wooster Style

Of all the delightful escapism in this world, sitting down with a bit of Wodehouse is surely one of the most felicitous. P.G. gave us some of the most charming and warmest of characters in the history of literature and, without a doubt, the enduring appeal of the books is the wonderful innocence of the Wodehouse world. The Queen Mother used to read a little of the Jeeves books before turning in at night; Stephen Fry cites Wodehouse as one of his favourite authors and apparently as the lifebelt that prevented him from going all the way under in his dark days of self-doubt and crippling depression.

And there, in a nutshell is the wonder of the stories; it’s something to keep a great old lady entertained, skipping off to dreamland with the right cocktail of final thoughts; and something to remind us all how wonderful the world is, despite all the daily plight and anguish. Wodehouse is the representation of the human race on absolutely tip-top form. It’s a tonic to read, wonderful to watch and even acting like your favourite Wodehouse hero or heroine is marvellous fun.

Without a doubt, the most popular of these heroes is Bertie Wooster. Bertie is often believed to be rather stupid; young, very wealthy and completely lacking ambition, he lives an idle life, but as the narrator in the Jeeves series, his mind is actually chock full of amusing and truthful witticisms and observations.

And that’s not all he offers; Bertie is also one of the more appealing dandies in all history; fictional and non-fictional. When Jeeves is introducing his replacement, Brinkley, to the duties of the Wooster household, the less worldly and resentful Brinkley proffers the impertinent statement, on seeing Bertie’s vast and wonderful wardrobe; ‘Got enough clothes, ‘asn’t ‘e?’ Jeeves responds with appropriate dexterity; ‘Very nearly.’

Interpretations of Bertie’s style have run the gamut from garishly eccentric to immaculate subtlety, but one constant is the glorious optimism of his character which shines through in his resplendent clothing. From checkered plus-fours, which Jeeves strongly objects to, with that famous and mighty ‘silent-disapproval’ look of his, to his beautifully tailored tails with matching buttonhole and patent kickers; Bertie is a character who delights in fashions, but never neglects style. Jeeves often has to inform his master of sartorial codes; ‘Gentlemen do not wear straw hats in the metropolis’, but, largely, Bertie’s style, superior to that of his Drone’s Club chums, is self-taught and much admired.

His eye for trends and individuality is marked frequently in the Wodehouse books; choosing a white-mess jacket for a summer dinner instead of the usual ‘bally black thing’. Often, this persistence with fads is a mere representation of one of the evils of Bertie’s idleness: boredom. However, Bertie has much to teach our cynical and graceless society about the honest goodness of being, if a little dim, a bally pleasant chap. Reading a few lines of Bertie’s exasperating trials with the opposite sex gives me a renewed goodwill to the world; it makes me want to don some sharp threads, a jaunty hat and a bow-tie and skip down to the park for a bracing walk and a reflection on the magnificent planet we live on.
If living like Bertie is a problem, then you could always adopt his bonhomie and a smidgeon of his wardrobe, so pick up your natty umbrella and take a walk in the world of Wodehouse.

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The Appeal of Nautical Look

On a recent sojourn to the south coast, walking along the shore in the shadow of the chalky and savage cliffs, I rediscovered my connection with the sea. It was not a particularly fine day and nor was it a remarkable stretch of coastline, but it was the utterly romantic situation; gazing out to a wild, unforgiving open water standing at the meeting place of land and sea, salt water spraying onto my face and a quite incredible wind that made me feel glad for my warm hat and high-collared coat. I was surrounded by the elements, isolated from the comforts promised by the distant lights of cliff-top homes and it was a remarkable feeling.

I have often envied those living the nautical life; back and forth on ocean going vessels, pacing down teak decking, the bobbing up and down, and the quiet summer evenings anchored in quaint harbours with a front row seat of the twinkling onshore lights. Nautical people seem never to forget the sea; it never leaves them. You stay on water long enough and you’ll probably have salt water running through your veins.

The British have long been a seafaring people. It’s a hefty weave of the rich tapestry of our island that we have always built ships and have always spent a significant amount of our time, for work or pleasure, moving about on them. And it is perhaps because of this heritage that I feel a warm connection to all things nautical, especially the nautical style of clothing.

The nautical look is a fashion that can be traced back to the mid-Victorian period, when a portrait was produced of the young Prince Edward, heir to the Empire, in a sailor’s outfit. Although it was merely a miniature version of the outfits worn by ratings on the Royal Yacht and not at all a serious expression of fashion, it became a wildly popular choice of children’s clothing by the end of the 19th century as parents were obliged to emulate the whims of the royals.

The ‘sailor’s fashions’; once connected with the coarse and unrefined ship hands, had become a vogue for young people the world over and it would not be long before Coco Chanel turned the classic merchant navy simplicity of colouring into a complex range of fashions displayed in her Deauville and Biarritz boutiques in navy, white, splashes of red and stripes; it was simple and yet elegant.

Nowadays, gents are as likely to dress like a sea captain as they are a lumber jack from the forest or a lounge-lizard from Knightsbridge. It is an accepted style, and what a style it can be. With blue striped jumpers under pea-coats, crisp navy double breasted blazers, white trousers and smart canvas shoes, ‘nauticising’ your look could never be simpler. The colours are wearable and classic and the lines are forgiving to men of all shapes and sizes; I think one would be very hard pushed to find a chap who views navy blue as a dangerously experimental colour.

Keeping the ‘detail’ to a minimum is important; no stitched-on anchors or captain’s hats. The homage to the sea should be done, and easily can be done, tastefully.

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